The Black Opal, Katharine Susannah Prichard [i have read the book a hundred times txt] 📗

exclaimed delightedly, holding the yellow blossoms to her nose. “Isn’t it lovely?⁠ ⁠… No flower in the world’s got such a perfume!”

Michael had explained to the guests that Sophie was not to be asked to sing, and that nothing was to be said about her singing. Something had gone wrong with her voice, he told two or three of the men.

He thought he had put the fear of God into Paul, and had managed to make him understand that it distressed Sophie to talk about her singing, and he must not bother her with questions about it. But in a lull of the talk Paul’s voice was raised querulously:

“What I can’t make out, Sophie,” he said, “is why you can’t sing? What’s happened to your voice? Have you been singing too much? Or have you caught cold? I always told you you’d have to be careful, or your voice’d go like your mother’s did. If you’d listened to me, now, or I’d been with you.⁠ ⁠…”

Bully Bryant, catching Michael’s eye, burst across Paul’s drivelling with a hearty guffaw.

“Well,” he said, “Sophie’s already had a sample of the fine lungs of this family, and I don’t mind givin’ her another, and then Ella and me’ll have to be takin’ Buffalo Bill home to bed. Now then, old son, just let ’em see what we can do.” He raised his voice to singing pitch:

“For-er she’s a jolly good fellow, for-er⁠—”

All the men and women in the hut joined in Bully’s roar, singing in a way which meant much more than the words⁠—singing from their hearts, every man and woman of them.

Then Bully put his baby under his arm as though it were a bundle of washing, Ella protesting anxiously, and the pair of them said good night to Sophie. Snowshoes went out before them; and Martha said she would walk down to the town with Bully and Ella. Bill Grant and Maggie said good night.

“Sophie looks as if she’d sleep without rocking tonight,” Maggie Grant said by way of indicating that everybody ought to go home soon and let Sophie get to bed early.

“I will,” Sophie replied.

Pony-Fence and the Crosses were getting towards the door, Watty and George followed them.

“It’s about time you was back, that’s what I say, Sophie,” George Woods said, gripping her hand as he passed. “There’s been no luck on this field since you went away.”

Sophie smiled into his kindly brown eyes.

“That’s right,” Watty backed up his mate heartily.

“But,” Sophie said, “they tell me Potch has had all the luck.”

“So he has,” George Woods agreed.

“It’s a great stone, isn’t it, Sophie?” Watty said.

“I haven’t seen it yet,” Sophie said. “Michael said he’d get Potch to show it to me tonight.”

“Not seen it?” George gasped. “Not seen the big opal! Say, boys”⁠—he turned to Pony-Fence, and the Crosses⁠—“I reck’n we’ll have to stay for this. Sophie hasn’t seen Potch’s opal yet. Bring her along, Potch. Bring her along, and let’s all have another squint at her. You can’t get too much of a good thing.”

“Right,” Potch replied.

He went out of the hut to bring the opal from his own room.

“Reck’n it’s the finest stone ever found on this field,” Watty said, “and the biggest. How much did you say Potch had turned down for it, Michael?”

“Four hundred,” Michael said.

“What are you hangin’ on to her for, Michael?” Pony-Fence asked.

Michael shook his head, that faint smile of his flickering.

“Potch’s had an idea he didn’t want to part with her,” he said. “But I daresay he’ll be letting her go soon.”

He did not say “now.” But the men understood that. They guessed that Potch had been waiting for this moment; that he wanted to show Sophie the stone before selling it.

Potch came into the room again, his head back, an indefinable triumph and elation in his eyes as they sought Sophie’s. He had a mustard tin, skinned of its gaudy paper covering, in his hand. A religious awe and emotion stirred the men as, standing beside Sophie, he put the tin on the table. They crowded about the table, muscles tightening in sun-red, weather-tanned faces, some of them as dark as the bronze of an old penny, the light in their eyes brightening, sharpening⁠—a thirsting, eager expression in every face. Potch screwed off the lid of the tin, lifted the stone in its wrappings, and unrolled the dingy flannel which he had put round it. Then he took the opal from its bed of cotton wool.

Sophie leaned forward, her eyes shining, her breath coming quickly. The emotion in the room made itself felt through her.

“Put out the lamp, Michael, and let’s have a candle,” George said.

Michael turned out the lamp, struck a match and set it to the candle in a bottle on the dresser behind him. He put the candle on the table. Potch held the great opal to the light, he moved it slowly behind the flame of the candle.

“Oh!”

Sophie’s cry of quivering ecstasy thrilled her hearers. She was one of them; she had been brought up among them. They had known she would feel opal as they did. But that cry of hers heightened their enthusiasm.

The breaths of suppressed excitement and admiration, and their muttered exclamations went up:

“Now, she’s showin’!”

“God, look at her now!”

Sophie followed every movement of the opal in Potch’s hand. It was a world in itself, with its thousand thousand suns and stars, shimmering and changing before her eyes as they melted mysteriously in the jetty pool of the stone.

“Oh!” she breathed again, amazed, dazed, and rapturous.

Potch came closer to her. They stood together, adoring the orb of miraculous and mysterious beauty.

“Here,” Potch said, “you hold her, Sophie.”

Sophie put out her hand, trembling, filled with childlike awe and emotion. She stretched her fingers. The stone weighed heavy and cold on them. Then there was a thin, silvery sound like the shivering of glass.⁠ ⁠… Her hand was light and empty. She stood staring at it for a moment; her eyes went to Potch’s face, aghast. The blood seemed